


Interlude

by refurinn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Imaginary Friends, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 10:58:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/refurinn/pseuds/refurinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft knew, ostensibly, that something was not congruent, but when he was seven, it struck him on a deeper level.</p><p>‘Are you real?’ he asks, looking up from his notepad. He’d thought Greg had put that red mark on the page, but he can’t quite remember now. Maybe it was him. The pen is by his elbow, after all, and Greg is across the room at the windowsill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise greatly for the constant referencing to Enid Blyton's _The Famous Five_. I had Rupert Graves' episode on my mind. In saying that, it probably serves to note that the Famous Five are: Julian, Dick, George (Georgina), Anne, and the dog, Timmy. Apologies, also, for the missing gaps in in time. It was a quick write. As always, I must dedicate thanks to the wonderful [Fiendfyre](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiendfyre/).

‘Are you happy?’

That’s the thing he remembers the most. When his head is pounding and his blood sugar level is dipping low and he’s at a crossroad between thinking ‘what have I done’ and ‘what do I do’, he remembers that. Not who, at first, not why, but the voice, and the infliction of it. Low, but childlike, almost petulant in a ‘this isn’t for me, it’s for you’ way. ‘Are you happy’, and Mycroft didn’t answer. Or he did, but he can’t remember. He’s picking at the seams of his trousers, corduroy and far too hot for the summer. Thinking about Enid Blyton, even though he never liked her, because she always made it look so easy. Holiday adventures with sun and excitement and a dog, and corduroy trousers. Mycroft was never cut out for the adventuring life. Studied hard in school like his parents wanted him to, kept up to date with stock markets and politics and learnt the ins and outs of business because that’s where the money is, that’s where the power is. It’s what his parents always envisioned, because they wanted the best for him. They meant well, they wanted his future steady and secure, and it is. He he enjoys it. Sometimes. Sometimes does not mean half the time, but it means a bit of it. He doesn’t hate it, he just hates… Well, he’s not going to think about it. He spends a lot of time not thinking about things. But ‘are you happy’, he thinks about that. Not the answer to it, no, just the words. When it’s dark and he’s alone – because he’s always alone, it’s work or it’s alone, those are his choices – he thinks about it. He remembers it. And then he remembers something else, and it all starts to filter back in.

‘I want you to be happy.’

***

He didn’t realise until he was seven. He was clever, but he wasn’t a genius child. Sherlock wasn’t either, although he leads people to believe he was. Mycroft knew, ostensibly, that something was not congruent, but when he was seven, it struck him on a deeper level.

‘Are you real?’ he asks, looking up from his notepad. He’d thought Greg had put that red mark on the page, but he can’t quite remember now. Maybe it was him. The pen is by his elbow, after all, and Greg is across the room at the windowsill.

‘Bloody right I am,’ Greg says, and gives the wall a mighty kick. He does things like that. He’s left a footprint in its wake, remnants of the dried mud on his shoes.

‘I think you might not be.’ Mycroft looks back down at his work again, trying to recall his train of thought. He hears some stomping and then there’s hot breath on his ear.

‘And why not?’ Greg’s a lot more petulant than Mycroft has ever been. Mycroft thinks he must find it enjoyable, must revel in it. He’s thirteen now – ‘A teenager, Mycroft. I’m nearly double your age, so do as I say and jump in that mud puddle!’ – and without an ounce of shame in his lean body. Mycroft supposes he may have been shy once upon a time, but not for as long as Mycroft can remember knowing him.

Mycroft picks up the red pen and expands the scribble on the edge of his page into an abstract trimming. ‘No one can see you.’

‘You can, Grumpy.’ Greg’s stubby, accusing finger makes a crinkle on the page. ‘Maybe you’re the one who’s not real. I don’t want people to see me, anyway. Great bunch of no good…’ Mycroft shifts his gaze slightly to watch Greg’s face scrunch up in consideration. ‘Twaddles,’ he decides upon, then needlessly adds, ‘they’re all silly,’ and stomps his foot again.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Mycroft says calmly, and turns on his chair to face the door. The creak of the landing outside precedes its sudden swinging open, and his mother looks down at him with something like exhaustion tugging at the corners of her mouth.

‘Mycroft, darling,’ – the darling is always said, to soften the words – ‘your father has asked you before to not make a commotion. I’ve barely managed to put Sherlock down and you know how lightly he sleeps.’ She looks tired. The wrinkles around her eyes are a new addition, but Mycroft feels he rather likes them. They add a kindness to her face. 

‘I’m sorry, Mummy.’

‘Tell her it was me!’ Greg demands. He rubs his clammy hand against Mycroft’s face to garner his attention but refrains from stomping again. ‘Tell her I did it. Say it was Greg.’

Mycroft smiles wanly at his mother and she returns it with gentle features. ‘You’re a good boy, Mycroft,’ she tells him. Her footsteps are decidedly softer on her descend back down the stairs, even with the door ajar. Mycroft takes the open doorway as a sign, but still rises to close it again.

‘You’re a wuss,’ Greg says, without any real force, and flops onto the bed. Mycroft returns to his desk and regards Greg curiously.

‘I know only I can see you, but are you real?’

‘Yes.’ Greg rolls onto his beck and kicks his legs into the air. There is a worrying moment when a flake of mud fall from one of his shoes, but it seems to be the only one.

‘Not a manif… st…’ Mycroft frowns down at the notepad. ‘Not my imagination, then?’

Greg gobs on the floor and grins at him. ‘Did you imagine that?’

Mycroft grimaces. ‘You’re a menace,’ he says, and offers the box of tissues to Greg with a pointed expression.

***

‘Tea, sir.’

The mug is placed within eyesight, but away from his documents. Mycroft notes the absence of usual teacup and determines that it must be a ploy to get a substantial amount of sugar into him.

‘Thank you,’ he says, voice croaking. He hopes it is a consequence of non-use, rather than an indication of oncoming illness. He clears his throat and smiles up at Anthea.

‘Ibuprofen?’ she enquires, and he nods slowly. His eyes are starting to strain, and there’s an itch in his limbs that beg him to retire home for the day. The mere fact that the stack of paper on his desk can be termed a stack determines his required presence for at least another hour.

He lifts his elbows onto the desk, resting his face in his hands. By the time Anthea has returned with a glass of water and a prescription bottle of pills, his hands have hit the desk, pillowing his forehead from the hard wood.

‘I’m fine,’ he says, before Anthea can ask. ‘I won’t be here much longer, you don’t have to stay.’

He can’t see her expression, but he predicts it lies in the space between wary and weary. The door closes with a resounding click and Mycroft begs his eyesight to cooperate with him for just a while more. He jumps rather aggressively at the sudden hand on his back.

‘What are you doing?’

‘God,’ Mycroft moans, pressing his fingers to his temples.

Greg is looking down his nose at the paperwork, adolescent hairs on his chin and offended expression on his face. ‘Yuck,’ he says, with great enunciation.

‘Please, no,’ Mycroft murmurs to himself. He closes his eyes against his swimming vision. ‘Not now, of all times.’

‘Look at you, old boy!’ Greg yells somewhere entirely too close to his ear. ‘You should be out having fun! It’s almost dark, now, you’ve wasted your day.’

Mycroft focuses on breathing through his nose.

‘You’ve gotten bigger.’ There’s a rustle and a thump that implies Greg has plonked himself onto the desk. ‘Blimey, look at you. Business suits and everything. I like what you’ve done with your hair.’

‘Please go away,’ Mycroft breathes.

‘That is no way to speak to your old chum. Come on, let’s go do something! Something fun! You do still know what fun is, don’t you?’

Greg pokes at his shoulder, then at his bowed head. There’s a huff and a slide and then Greg’s off the desk, standing oddly silent. Mycroft opens his eyes just as Greg kicks the side of the desk. The whole thing shakes with the impact.

‘D’you even remember me?’ Greg demands angrily, pointing his finger. Always pointing.

‘Greg.’

‘Mycroft. When did you get so serious?’

‘When I grew up. You’re not real. Kindly vacate yourself from the office.’

‘I am real!’ Greg draws himself up to his full eighteen-year-old height, messy hair, spots on his face, worn jacket sleeves pushed up to his elbows. ‘Don’t you go spouting lies, mister! I don’t care how old and important you are, I’ll still whop you one on the back of the head!’

Mycroft folds his trembling hands in his lap and looks down at the mug. He should have drunken the tea while it was still hot. Greg picks up the ibuprofen bottle and shakes it loudly.

‘Arthritis pills?’ he asks, and chuckles to himself.

‘What do you want?’ Mycroft asks. It seems to sober Greg up, and he places the bottle gently on the desk.

‘I told you that,’ Greg says quietly. ‘I told you ages ago. I want you to be happy.’

Mycroft breathes slowly for a while and collects his thoughts. ‘Happiness is relative. I’m not being pessimistic here, Greg, happiness is not a large factor in adult life. It is an achievement, and a fleeting one at that.’

Greg studies him with narrowed eyes, then taps him on the head. ‘Bollocks. Get happy, or I’ll cover you in mud. I demand you be happy, right now.’

Mycroft rises from his chair, takes two pills from the bottle and swallows them down with the water. He crosses to the doorway and turns to look squarely at Greg. ‘I’m leaving, momentarily. When I return, you are not to be in this room. Understood?’

Greg huffs. When Mycroft gains the courage to step back into the office, it’s empty. The silence is stifling.

***

The first time Greg touches Sherlock, the baby raises its chubby little arms and looks directly at Greg. Mycroft allows himself to hope.

Sherlock grows older and Greg will tap him on the head, or tug at his coat sleeves, and the toddler will turn with a scowl. Greg tickles him and Sherlock laughs with a joy that Mycroft has never heard from him before. Greg laughs too, grinning widely. Mycroft’s hope gives way to sudden dread.

Sherlock can’t see Greg. The day Mycroft realises is the day he breathes a guilty sigh of relief. He’d thought Sherlock may put some accumulation of dots together eventually, but then, Sherlock is far too logical for that. Else, Mycroft supposes, his brother is too young to think too long on any matter. Regardless, Mycroft orders Greg to stop touching his brother. Greg touches Mycroft instead, grabs him around the middle and carries him off to his room. It’s when Mycroft is slung over Greg’s shoulder, staring at the ground five feet away, that he knows for certain this is not just his mind.

The hour following Greg’s unceremonious dumping of Mycroft on the bed sees the arrival of a storm, and a little Sherlock at his door soon after. Mycroft knows better than to ask if he’s scared, but Sherlock still shakes his head slightly as though anticipating it. The windows rattle with the force of the thunder and Sherlock raises his chin up, although his hands clutch at his sleeves.

‘Grumpy Junior’s here!’ Greg crows delightedly, stooping and walking a slow circle around Sherlock to inspect the boy’s face. ‘We can start a gang!’

‘Come and sit on the bed,’ Mycroft tells him.

Sherlock’s too small to properly lift himself onto the bedframe, and Mycroft is about to move to help him when Greg lifts him easily and settles him down on the covers. Sherlock doesn’t bat an eyelash, just shuffles backward until his spine rests against the wall. Mycroft frowns at Greg and he shrugs apologetically.

‘Shan’t do it again,’ Greg says.

Mycroft doesn’t really know what to say to his brother, and he’s overly conscious of Greg’s presence now that he knows Sherlock isn’t. He makes a short motion with his head and, when Greg takes the hint to move away from the bed, takes up his pen again and goes back to long division.

‘He’s shaking, Grumpy.’ Greg leans his elbows on the desk, his spine curving. ‘He’s scared. Let’s do something! Something fun!’ He springs to his feet, energy thrumming through him, and his sudden cry of ‘yaharrr!’ is drowned out by another bout of thunder. ‘Let’s be pirates!’ he proclaims loudly.

‘Sherlock.’ Mycroft moves to sit on the bed, tucking his cold feet beneath him. His brother is indeed shaking. ‘Do you like pirates?’

Greg continues to make gruff noises, stalking the length of the room, jabbing an imaginary sword out. Sherlock studies his toes, wiggling against the duvet. He shrugs.

‘How much do you know about pirates?’

‘Not a lot,’ Sherlock says.

‘Tell him about Blackbeard!’ Greg calls, and kicks the wall. Mycroft points a warning finger at him, before raising it to scratch at his head.

‘Do you want to hear a pirate story?’

Sherlock nods.

‘Yes, me too!’ Greg falls to his knees beside the bed, resting arms on the edge and staring up at Mycroft with large eyes in much the same manner as Sherlock is.

‘Edward Teach,’ Mycroft begins, ‘more commonly known as Blackbeard.’

Sherlock’s hands stop fidgeting at his sleeves.

***

Greg is sitting on the kitchen bench when Mycroft emerges in the morning. His hands had been stuffed in his pockets, but he pulls them out to spread his fingers in a placating manner.

‘Let me talk,’ he says.

Mycroft spares him a short glance and then berates himself as he turns his attention to making tea.

‘I’m sorry,’ Greg’s voice drifts from behind him. ‘I shouldn’t have… been like that. I was just excited to see you, but also annoyed because it meant I hadn’t done my job right. You were such a lively kid, Grumpy, it was just weird to see you… Well, not that there’s anything wrong with this getup.’ He’s probably making a motion toward Mycroft. Mycroft doesn’t turn to check. ‘I came about it the wrong way. I just…’ Greg sighs. ‘Why aren’t you happy, Mycroft?’

Mycroft debates the merits of ignoring him, but the thought of Greg trailing after him to work loosens his tongue. ‘I’m perfectly content.’

‘Yeah, but you’re not.’ Greg comes to stand beside him. Mycroft can see him in the peripheral of his vision. He looks almost endearingly young, which is a shocking comparison to how much older and sophisticated Greg had always seemed in the past. Mycroft wonders where he’s been all this time to have not aged at all, then shakes his head at the asinine thought. ‘Or I wouldn’t be here.’

‘I am no different now in emotional state than I was a decade ago.’ Mycroft looks down at his tea, quenching to urge to tap his fingers against the bench. Fidgeting may be taken as a sign of many things, uneasiness and deceit among the highest ranking.

‘What else is in your life, Mycroft?’

‘Come again?’

‘Just tell me and I can go. You don’t want me here, right? Let’s just figure out what’s missing so I can leave.’

‘I don’t… not want you here.’ Mycroft tries to eradicate the frown from his features. ‘You were a wonderful, if very mischievous, part of my childhood. Unfortunately, yours is not the sort of company I adhere to in present times.’

‘What do have in your life other than work?’

‘You are a pleasant memory, Greg.’ Even if a highly repressed one. ‘It would be most gratifying for you to remain as such.’

‘Social clubs, hobbies, favourite TV show?’

‘There is, in fact, the Diogenes–’

‘Social!’ Greg groans. ‘Do you have a partner, Mycroft?’

‘No.’

‘Have you ever?’

Mycroft smiles softly, turning his face to toward Greg. ‘Naïve. Yes, dear boy, I have.’

‘When?’

Mycroft lifts the tea strainer and busies himself with emptying it. ‘Not for a while,’ he comments lightly.

‘Do you love things?’

‘That question is ridiculous.’

‘You’re sad.’

This is a conversation to be held sitting down, at a table, at a time that is not this time.

‘That was established a long time ago. Excuse me, I have to prepare for the day.’

He leaves the tea behind, because Greg’s got his hand on it. Only a few cold dregs remain when he returns home from work, and he’s not sure what to make of that.

***

Mycroft is ten and he likes his parents, likes his brother, even likes his school, but he is sad. He doesn’t know why, but he knows that he is. He can recognise fleeting sadness, and circumstantial sadness, and he knows that his own emerges from a different source.

He doesn’t tell anyone.

Greg leads him down to the lake that lies at the edge of the property, not quite their land, but sheltered enough that they are unlikely to get caught. Mycroft doesn’t like to swim, but Greg does. Mycroft will sometimes dip his feet into the water, and that will appease Greg enough that he won’t try to drag Mycroft in after him. Greg is older now, has bristles on his chin that he is inherently proud of. He’s even fashioned himself a different jacket to mark the occasion. The shirt is the same as it always was, but the jacket is now of a strong, formidable material, rather than the soft wool-cotton blend that Mycroft is accustomed to.

They stop by the house to relieve Mycroft of his school bag and Greg leads him to the lake, sits himself down on the grassy ridge off to the side of it. Mycroft sits beside him and refuses Greg’s offer of rocks to throw into the water.

‘It’s okay,’ Greg says, when his hands are empty and the last of the ripples have died away.

‘Is it,’ Mycroft says without much infliction, pulling his knees up and resting his arms across them. Greg sighs and is silent for a long while. His fingers scratch at the hard dirt, pulling up grass in the process.

‘You can be sad.’ He’s looking down at his feet, and Mycroft looks down at them as well because he doesn’t want to look at Greg’s face. ‘It’s okay.’

‘Okay.’

Greg leans back until he’s lying down and begins to empty fistfuls of grass onto his stomach. Mycroft doesn’t like grass because it makes his skin itch.

‘I don’t suppose I would be any of the Famous Five,’ Mycroft says.

‘Not even the dog?’

Mycroft smiles but rests his forehead against his crossed arms so he can close his eyes.

‘Which one do you think I would be, then?’ Greg asks.

Mycroft considers it for a moment. ‘I suppose not any of them, either,’ he says, and his shoulders lurch as he begins to cry. It’s only for a moment, some onslaught of emotion that catches him by surprise, but it’s enough time for Greg to wrap both arms around him and rest his forehead against Mycroft’s shoulder.

***

‘I think you just need a good mud cake. That’s what you need.’

‘I don’t really eat cake,’ Mycroft murmurs, tapping at his keyboard. Greg’s up to speed on most of his life, now. Two weeks of following Mycroft to work and kicking his desk was sufficient enough for Mycroft to begin spilling information. He doesn’t really mind too much, thinks it rather nice, in a way. Not the newfound company, but the lack of expectation that accompanies it.

‘Not an edible one. Bloody oath, you’re thick.’ Greg flicks him on the side of the head, but it’s soft and doesn’t hurt. ‘Mud, silly. Mud.’

‘Good idea.’ Mycroft fingers don’t stop moving. ‘You go and find some and I’ll meet you back at the house.’

‘Nah, you’d regret it.’ Greg comes to lean over Mycroft’s shoulder. ‘Boring!’ he proclaims, and spittle hits the laptop screen. ‘I mean this is, not you, Mycroft. You’re not nearly as boring as the other plonks.’ He wraps his arms loosely around Mycroft’s neck. ‘You’re a good one.’

Mycroft does stop at that. He’s surprised to find he’s smiling. ‘Thank you,’ he says gently.

‘I want to stay with you.’ Greg presses his face his face against the side of Mycroft’s, speaking into his ear. ‘Let’s do something fun, _please_.’

‘All right,’ Mycroft concedes. ‘After. We’ll go to the park.’

‘No, now.’

‘Why don’t you go down to the boardroom?’ Mycroft pries Greg’s arms off his shoulders. ‘They’re having a meeting, you could cause some real trouble.’

‘Sneaky.’ Greg grins, yanking open some of the desk’s drawers. He lifts a vial of ink from the bottom one. ‘I’m taking this with me.’

Mycroft represses the worrying noise that rises in his throat. ‘Don’t use too much. And don’t–’ he motions toward the vial, ‘–let that be seen.’

‘Aye aye, Cap’n!’ Greg salutes.

He’s back within the half-hour, sitting by Mycroft’s feet and curling himself into something small. There’s ink on his fingers and no vial to be seen. Anthea opens the door a moment later, a smirk on her face.

‘You’ll want to come and see this,’ she says.

‘It wasn’t _all_ me,’ Greg protests weakly.

***

Mycroft is twelve when Greg leaves him. He’s too old for an imaginary friend, and he’s told Greg so. Greg had laughed it off at first, made jokes and teased him.

‘You’re trying to get rid of me,’ he’d said, mock-affronted, and Mycroft assured him he wasn’t, even knowing there was no other way for the statement to be taken. They both realised he was serious around the same time.

‘Will you miss me, Grumpy?’ Greg asks. Mycroft is on the verge of falling asleep, drifting, but aware enough to know he’s going to get cold if he doesn’t wake himself up enough to readjust the blankets.

‘Yes,’ Mycroft sighs, and doesn’t think much of the question because he hears it every morning that Greg decides not to accompany him to school, an infrequent occurance since Mycroft hit double-digits.

‘Are you happy?’

Mycroft hums.

‘I want you to be happy.’

The blankets are tugged up to Mycroft’s chin, and he turns gratefully onto his side, already feeling his mind wavering on the edge of consciousness. Greg’s warm hand settles briefly over his cheek, then disappears. It’s the last thing Mycroft remembers.

He cries the next day, tries to make himself stop, but his body betrays him. Hormones, he thinks bitterly, even as he throws rocks into the lake and yells for Greg to come back. He didn’t mean it, he’s not ready yet, please come back.

The day after, he packs all his memories into a neat box and pushes it to the back of his mind. He marks it under ‘childishness’ and doesn’t think about it any more.

***

‘You told me I was your best friend, Mycroft.’

It is very difficult to simulate sleeping when one’s bed is being invaded by one’s own imagination. Greg has taken his jacket off, Mycroft can feel it by the warmth of his arms, pressed against Mycroft’s back.

‘Do you remember,’ Greg murmurs into his ear. Mycroft ceases his regulation of a shallow breathing pattern. ‘When you were little, and your mum was throwing one of those god-awful tea parties.’

Fingers trace softly down Mycroft spine.

‘You played the piano and I sang, awfully, got all the words wrong, too, but no one noticed. They all clapped and said it was beautiful. We went off to have fun after that. We dug that great big hole in the front garden, and you were terrified of getting into trouble, so we pushed all the dirt back in and spread that grass on it. Do you remember?’

He’s using the tips of his fingernails now, and it feels glorious.

‘Mr Rogers, that uptight one with the moustache, he was sticking his stiff upper lip out all evening, looking down his great big bloody nose at everyone. And he tripped, he–’

Greg has to stop because he’s laughing, mouth pressed against Mycroft’s shoulder blade, hot through the cotton. Greg yanks the blankets up a little higher.

‘We didn’t pack the dirt in tight enough. They all rounded the house to look at the flowers or summat and the soil gave way. He tripped and his toupee fell off. He looked so damn mad but everyone just laughed.’

His voice is softening, growing lethargic with contentedness.

‘Your dad, especially. Didn’t scold us for it or nothing. He looked really happy that day. You did, too.’

He presses his face in close again, breaths evening out.

‘You remember that?’

Mycroft doesn’t, but it still makes him smile.

***

Mycroft is sixteen. He’s slowly getting through adolescence, and he knows no one ever did it easy, but he’s getting through it. He’s uncomfortable in his skin and feeling things he’s not sure he’s supposed to feel. He has friends, he’s not alone, but he’s lonely. He thinks about a boy sometimes, with dark eyes and a stubby nose and a penchant for kicking and spitting. A boy who was, by all means, repulsive, and Mycroft refuses to think of his name. He refuses to wonder what might have become if he’d not made that request.

He grows older. Seventeen, eighteen. He’s forgotten what he felt like at thirteen, pushes fourteen and fifteen back as well. He represses it because that’s what he does best.

He’s nineteen and a girl kisses him and he feels ashamed. He doesn’t know why.

He’s nineteen and a boy kisses him and he feels ashamed. He knows why.

He’s twenty and he gives his heart to a boy with dark hair and warm hands and a clever mind.

He’s twenty-one and the boy gives it back. Mycroft goes home and lies down on his childhood bed. He gets up in the afternoon and stands outside with Sherlock, accepting the cigarette his brother offers him. Sherlock spits on the ground and Mycroft lets the cigarette burn down to a stub in his hand without taking a single drag. He takes the carton from Sherlock and throws them in the bin. His brother scowls. He walks down to the lake and the new owner of the property next door shoos him away. He lies on the bed again.

He’s twenty-five and his job is hard, but he enjoys it. He worked hard to get there.

He’ twenty-six and Geoffrey’s standing outside his work with a bundle of black and white fur in his arms, saying, ‘Timmy, his name is Timmy,’ and laughing.

He’s twenty-eight and hugging Timmy’s neck tightly because the dog’s about to be put on a plane. Geoffrey looks almost as tired as Mycroft feels and Mycroft doesn’t particularly want him to leave, but they’ve agreed it’s for the best.

‘Maybe I’ll see you again one day,’ Geoffrey says. Mycroft thinks the man is probably owed a hug as well, but he’s too busy clutching Timmy’s fur and thinking about all the adventures they forgot to have.

He’s thirty-one and endlessly tired.

He’s thirty-four and his head is pounding, he’s at a crossroad between thinking ‘what have I done’ and ‘what do I do’. He’s remembering something.

***

‘I always thought we’d be the ones to break the rules, you know?’

Mycroft doesn’t mind a grey sky. The smatterings of drizzle have shooed the people back to their houses, or to warm, bustling cafés, and the park is empty. The rain hasn’t deterred the ducks, and they’ve been swimming right to the edge of the pond to inspect Greg, on his knees and leaning forward at a troubling angle. Mycroft finds it curious how they react to him. Greg had brought some bread from home, dividing it equally between the ducks and making sure each got their fair share. He’s since returned to the bench where Mycroft has installed himself for the duration, sitting on the back with his feet on the seat. Mycroft wonders if it’s a power technique, putting those levels between them. He wonders if Greg’s trying to regain some authority without realising he never lost it.

‘Not that there really are any rules. It’s a pretty subjective business, this,’ Greg waves his hand between them. ‘But everyone’s got to leave at some time, you know? Move on and all that. I thought… well.’ He hunches his shoulders, jacket zipped up right to his neck and hands making fists inside his pockets. ‘I had thought I’d always stay. I guess it was unrealistic thinking.’

Mycroft doesn’t want to get into this conversation. He’s spent too long mastering not thinking about it to ruin his progress now. Instead, he says, ‘You can stay, now. I’d like you to.’

‘That’s sweet.’ Greg’s shoes tap beside Mycroft’s thigh. ‘I don’t think it’s quite the same deal, this time. More of a… temporary solution.’

His breath is misty, and he contorts his mouth in an effort to make rings. It doesn’t work.

‘Did you get assigned someone else?’ Mycroft asks softly.

‘Nah. I mean,’ Greg shrugs his shoulders, ‘look at me. Same age and everything. I was aware, though. I mean, in all this time between, I could think and everything, it was just really slow and sluggish. Guess I was in limbo or some place. I don’t know.’

There’s a sadness in Greg’s voice that doesn’t sound like it’s really linked to anything. Mycroft understands the emotion well. ‘Will you get someone when you go back?’

‘Maybe. Maybe this is like one of those closure sort of things. Never thought I needed it.’

‘Is it… vital that you return there?’ Mycroft has learnt not to look down when he’s feeling emotionally compromised, but to look straight ahead instead. The ducks have retreated to a thicket, but they occasionally poke their heads out in hopes of more bread. Greg sighs beside him.

‘Yeah. I don’t think they factor love into situations like these.’

‘I always loved you.’ Mycroft tilts his head, just slightly. ‘I still do.’

‘Not what I meant. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Come on, my feet are getting numb, I want to get my blood flowing again.’

They get up, and one lone duck abandons the safety of the thicket to watch them leave.

***

They’re both frozen, staring each other down. Greg’s face is white and Mycroft is covered in mud from the waist down. Greg’s horrified expression ticks over into something else, until his chin is shaking with repressed laughter.

‘This is not okay,’ Mycroft says sternly, and Greg keels over as the glee suddenly hits him. There’s no other word for the level of joyous he sounds in his giggling. Mycroft turns his back sharply and starts walking toward the distant house. Greg jogs to keep up, but Mycroft purposely avoids looking at him.

‘I’m sorry,’ Greg says. ‘Grumpy, listen, I really am. It _was_ funny, you’ve got to admit. I am sorry, though.’

He’s not. He did it on purpose, and not for the first time.

‘I think I’m too old for an imaginary friend,’ Mycroft says, and grits his teeth. Greg stops in his tracks but Mycroft keeps walking. He arrives at the house and only takes the time to peel his shoes and socks off before heading straight to the shower. Greg is on his bed when he eventually enters his room, and the boy gives him a wavering smile. Mycroft nods, and they pretend it never happened.

***

‘I would like for you to stay.’

‘So you’ve said, but–’

‘I want you to.’

‘Mycroft.’ Greg comes to the table, picks up Mycroft’s glass and takes a sip. The water level has decreased when he places is back down. ‘It doesn’t work like that. I’m just helping you get back on your feet, yeah? Tapping into your inner happiness and all that.’

‘Why?’ Mycroft asks. ‘Where will you go if you’re not here?’

Greg shushes him. ‘Doesn’t matter. Look, this is what I think. Get outside more often, maybe. I know you don’t want to, but it gets the endorphins flowing. Umm…’ He thinks for a moment. ‘Christ, this grown-up stuff is a lot harder to figure out, isn’t it?’

‘Greg.’

‘I guess you don’t really have the time for a dog, but–’

‘Greg, _please_. I was a child and I didn’t mean what I said.’

‘So, what, Mycroft? I stay, what then? Great at first, but then you get busier, or you meet someone, or you get sick of me tagging along. You’re the only one that can see me, Mycroft. I _need_ you. Then it becomes about me, instead of you, and that breaks the rules, I mean really breaks them. This isn’t like before. I’ll become a nuisance, and I won’t let that happen.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Mycroft, you grew up.’ Greg’s eyes are wide. His mouth trembles. ‘And I didn’t.’

Mycroft bows his head. He doesn’t know what to say.

‘Don’t make this hard.’

***

Mycroft is thirty-four and a boy is kissing him, and he doesn’t know how not to make this hard.

***

Everyone is interested in the baby. Mycroft understands that it’s new and exciting, and that Sherlock had been a thought for years before he was, by medical aid, conceived. He doesn’t mind, he rather prefers not being the centre of attention.

Greg doesn’t care about the baby. He doesn’t care about anyone except for Mycroft, and he tells him so.

‘If I had to be stuck on an island for a thousand years with only one person, it would be you. In fact, not even a thousand, a _trillion_. For eternity! I would pick you, because everyone else on the planet is a tosspot.’

Mycroft laughs. He’s just snuck back into his bedroom with Greg’s requested box of Band-Aids in hand, and not a single of the adults cooing downstairs noticed him do it. It’s what started Greg on the spiel of high praise.

‘Okay,’ Greg says, and busies himself with plastering as many of the plastic strips as he can across Mycroft’s knees. They’d gotten scraped last time, and had stung a lot when Mummy had disinfected them. ‘No more cuts for you.’

Task completed, Greg throws the box to the side and grabs Mycroft’s cap from the cupboard, shoving it on Mycroft’s head and pulling it down over his ears. When Mycroft pushes it up, Greg is grinning at him.

‘Let’s go have an adventure,’ he says.

‘Yeah,’ Mycroft agrees with enthusiasm.

They go out through the window. They’ve mastered it by now, Greg scaling the tree first and then helping Mycroft from there. The bark scratches against the Band-Aids, but Mycroft can’t feel it. He’s got a determination he’s never quite felt before, a feeling that this is it, this is what adventuring is. It’s going to be a real one, not like the silly books he reads. Greg is better than all of them combined.

‘Partners in crime,’ Greg whispers when it’s clear they haven’t been caught. The morning dew has mostly dried and Mycroft’s shoes don’t slip on the grass like last time. They make it to the forestry without interruption and Greg, in his excitement, howls like a wolf. He then glances quickly around and puts his finger to Mycroft’s lips to shush him, regardless of the fact that Mycroft had not been about to imitate him. ‘Babies,’ Greg huffs. ‘Who needs ‘em. Just you and me, Grumpy. I’m your best friend, right?’

Mycroft nods against his finger.

‘Good. You’re mine, too. Let’s go.’

***

‘I’m sorry,’ Greg whispers. The sun is beginning to rise. Mycroft’s bedside clock doesn’t tick, but they can both hear it counting down, regardless. ‘This isn’t what I came here to do. I just wanted to make you happy, and…’ He presses his forehead into the pillow, threading his hands through the hair at the back of his head. His shirt bunches at his shoulders, the same shirt he’s worn for as long as Mycroft’s known him. ‘I’ve made it worse.’

Mycroft can barely hear the words, staring up at the ceiling, trepidation settling over him like a shroud.

‘I need to go,’ Greg says. He turns his head and looks at Mycroft, and Mycroft looks back. To make sure he’s serious. To make sure the goodbye is genuine, because if there’s even the slightest chance that it’s not... ‘I have to go, just for a while. For a year, maybe, and then I can help you. I’ll help you find happiness.’ He smiles weakly and leans forward to kiss Mycroft, just briefly. ‘When I’m not standing in the way of it.’

Mycroft can’t say anything, because he’s said it all before and Greg won’t listen. Maybe Greg’s right. Maybe when distance dulls his emotions, he’ll be able to look objectively at the facts and realise it would never have worked. Realise this is for the best. But there’s that maybe there, and Mycroft has never liked being unsure.

‘I’ve made this worse,’ Greg says, again. ‘I’m sorry.’

The buzzing of the alarm cuts through the space between them, tearing it a little wider. Mycroft turns it off, rises from the bed and moves to the bathroom. He showers and dresses, drinks his morning tea in silence and throws his forgotten toast into the bin. He pats down his suit and collects his briefcase from the study. Greg remains on the bed, hands over his eyes.

‘Will you be here when I return?’ Mycroft asks, but he can’t bring himself to voice the word ‘stay’ another time. Greg smiles at him, gets up and comes to wrap his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders. Mycroft’s free hand remains by his side.

‘Just a year, maybe,’ Greg says. That word again. Maybe. ‘Please be happy, please. I want you to be happy.’

Greg the Menace, Mycroft wants to say. The boy who liked to kick and spit and play with mud. Who says that you never grew up?

He doesn’t say it. Greg releases him and tilts his chin up, so he can see Mycroft’s eyes.

‘I have to leave for work,’ Mycroft says.

***

Mycroft turns thirty-five and they sing for him at work. He gets a phone call from his mother in the evening and even a text from Sherlock, although it comes two days late. He’s not alone, even though he’s still lonely, but that’s okay. He digs out the box of memories with ‘childishness’ scrawled across the side and sorts through them until he finds the one that tell him it’s okay, and he makes peace with himself. He makes a new box of memories. He wonders if this was what Greg was looking for, and if it will prevent him from coming back.

***

‘Mycroft!’

The voice gets to him before the paws at his waist, before the man running after.

‘Timmy,’ Mycroft breathes, and, trousers be damned, crouches down to greet the dog properly. He’s got a smattering of grey hairs on his muzzle now, but his energy is the same.

‘Sorry.’

Mycroft looks up and Geoffrey is staring backing, out of breath but grinning.

‘He saw you before I did.’

‘He was always very clever.’ Mycroft stands and takes the hand that Geoffrey has offered. Timmy sniffs his way around Mycroft’s knees. ‘You’re back.’

‘Yeah, just recently. I missed the weather.’

Mycroft looks up at the grey sky and allows himself to smile. ‘Yes, I find it a constant delight.’

‘Look, umm,’ Geoffrey scratches at the back of his head. ‘I hope I’m not proposing anything too awkward here, but I still travel a lot for work, and Timmy, well… He’s still partly yours, you know. I know you’re a busy man, but–’

‘Yes,’ Mycroft says. He scratches behind Timmy’s ears. ‘I’d love that.’

‘Great.’ There’s relief in Geoffrey’s voice, even as his attention slides from Mycroft to his watch. ‘I’ve got to go, but your number’s still the same, right?’ Mycroft nods. ‘I’ll call you, I promise.’

Mycroft waves them off, even though Geoffrey doesn’t turn to see, already breaking into a jog.

He stays true to his word, however, and within the fortnight, Mycroft has an armful of food containers and another of blanket, leash and water bowel. Timmy inspects the house with great gusto and doesn’t jump onto any of the furniture, like Mycroft had taught him not to, once upon a time.

‘Good boy, Timmy.’ He doesn’t quite delve into full dog-voice, but it gets close. ‘Good boy.’

‘Timmy,’ says a voice from behind him. Timmy barks and lurches forward from Mycroft’s grip. ‘You know what, if you had to be any, I think you’d be Julian. Mystery solved.’


End file.
